Hand in Glove
by Carly Sullivan
Summary: As the Interstellar Alliance is forming, Lyta Alexander considers her future.
1. Hand in Glove 1/4

Hand in Glove 1/4  
-------------------------------------------------  
  
  
She shivered as she slipped into the gloves. So   
much of her life had been spent with her hands   
sheathed in leather, but so rarely had it been to   
protect against a physical cold. The mark of a   
telepath, the ever-present gloves did nothing to   
temper the iciness with which mundanes received   
her.  
  
Cold seeped through the insulated parka,   
slithering between the layers of clothing Lyta   
Alexander wore. The network of tunnels that   
cobwebbed the Martian underground had a   
breathable atmosphere, but little else to make it   
hospitable. She would make the trip back to   
Babylon 5 alone. Sheridan's forces had gone on to   
Earth, Garibaldi and Halloran had turned back to   
their own lives on Mars, and Franklin had raced   
to intercept a Ranger on a lover's quest.  
  
She made her way through the tunnels to the   
docking bays. Left to find her own transportation   
when little was moving, she had booked passage on   
a cargo ship bound for the outer colonies with a   
stop at Babylon 5. Three days later, she was off-  
loaded, after the food supplies but before the   
machine parts.  
  
The bulky clothing was an annoyance now:   
unnecessary in the controlled climate of Babylon   
5, unwieldy to carry. She kept the parka on as   
she passed through customs, though sweat soaked   
the clothing beneath. Finally at the front of the   
line, she offered her identicard to the agent.   
The thickness of her gloves muffled sensation and   
muffed the hand-off. The card tumbled to the deck   
plate, bouncing once with a rather   
inconsequential click, she thought, for something   
that held her whole life. She dropped to her   
knees to retrieve it, sliding off a glove as she   
did. Even without that padding around her   
fingers, she still struggled to coax the thin   
plastic badge from its resting-place on the   
floor, snapping a fingernail as she pried it up.  
  
Still on her knees, she extended the card to the   
security agent, watched him place his fingers   
carefully on the far edge of the card from hers.   
She had not been listening to the psychic noise   
of the place; blocking such background noise was   
habit. She heard it now, however: the annoyance   
and restlessness of those behind her in the line,   
and the apprehension of this young man, who   
recognized her as a telepath, and feared to touch   
her. For a moment, she considered saying   
something, something to let them know she could   
hear them, something to prove they had no secrets   
from her. Something stopped her, though she could   
not be sure if it was her ethics or her fear of   
their reaction. Silently, she rose, swallowed her   
anger, accepted her identicard, and moved on.  
  
She caught glimpses of the ISN reports as she   
passed through the Zocalo: the battles between   
the Army of Light and Earthforce, Clark's   
suicide, Earth's rescue by Sheridan's forces.   
Nowhere, of course, was there any mention of the   
telepaths. Few, even in high places, would know   
about them; none would admit it. There was talk   
of the new government, of amnesty for Sheridan's   
officers, and of the Interstellar Alliance.   
Sheridan, Delenn, G'Kar, even Londo, all gave   
bold speeches. They spoke of peace and of   
protection, of rights and of respect.  
  
Her quarters seemed colder and darker than she   
remembered them, and suddenly her winter attire   
felt more welcome. She dropped her little bag   
just inside the door and called for lights,   
waited for them to flicker to life, and assessed   
her surroundings. A memory shivered down her   
spine, a room bare save for a mattress, and   
though the space still seemed spare and   
inelegant, it was better now. Perhaps she would   
fix it up a bit, when she found work. If she   
found work.  
  
She had moved on to wondering if she should stay   
on Babylon 5 at all when the door chime sounded.   
A quick glance at the viewer showed Zack Allan on   
the other side of the door, fidgeting just a bit.   
She called the open command and realized, with   
the recognition of regret that he had not brought   
a pizza, that she was hungry.  
  
The door slid back. Zack's gaze shifted from his   
own feet to woman before him, and he started to   
stammer. "Oh…uh…hi…I… I can…"  
  
"Hi, Zack."  
  
"I'm sorry. Were you on your way out? I can come   
back."  
  
Only then did Lyta realize she still wore her   
full arctic gear. Her cheeks warmed further as   
she fumbled with the fastenings on the jacket.  
  
"No, Zack, actually I just got in. Come in,   
please," she said as the parka slipped from her   
shoulders onto the chair behind her. "What can I   
do for you?" She winced as she heard herself,   
automatically, use the language of a servant.  
  
Zack's grin peeked out on one side of his face,   
and he shifted his weight as though the balancing   
the new expression he carried. "I just heard   
you'd come aboard, and I thought I'd come by and   
say hi."  
  
She wondered, cynically, if the Chief of   
Security was notified of all arrivals, or only   
those of telepaths, but even as the thought   
prickled at her brain, she motioned him in. His   
first footfall kicked her abandoned bag, throwing   
him off balance, making him lurch forward   
awkwardly. She jumped forward to steady him, her   
gloved hands like paws on his arms. She fell back   
as he caught his balance, stooping to move the   
offending luggage out of the way, shedding the   
gloves and tossing them atop the bag.  
  
"So, how did everything go on Mars?" Zack was   
asking.  
  
She was unsure how to respond. Zack clearly knew   
the outcome of the mission. How privy he was to   
the details, she could not say.  
  
"Well, from what I've seen on ISN, it went   
well." Perhaps he was just making small talk.  
  
"Yeah, well, it was pretty scary there for a   
while. EarthForce gave us a harder time than we   
expected," he said.  
  
She felt the clawing in her solar plexus climb   
her spine. Spinning toward the kitchen, she let a   
question float in the air. "Would you like some   
tea?" She did not look back to see if he heard   
her irritation.  
  
"Yeah, sure, thanks," Zack mumbled, following   
her to the nook. "What happened with the   
telepaths anyway?" he pressed. "Did you get 'em   
on the EarthForce ships or not?"  
  
The kettle clattered onto a burner no hotter   
than her temper. "Yes." Her tone was almost even   
when she turned back to him. "One cryotube was   
smuggled onto each EarthForce destroyer."  
  
Allan cantilevered his long frame to rest his   
forearms on the counter. "So what happened?   
Didn't it work? Why'd they give us so much   
trouble?"  
  
The water had not yet begun to bubble, but her   
temper boiled over.  
  
"Do you have any idea how much 'trouble'   
Sheridan and his people would have had if those   
telepaths had not been on the EarthForce ships?   
They crippled all the EarthForce ships near Mars.   
Sheridan's offensive would have been over before   
it started without them. And I'll thank you not   
to talk about three dozen of my people like they   
were some kind of collective parlor trick.   
Telepaths died in that offensive, and not by   
their own choice. "  
  
"Hey, now, just a minute! We weren't the ones   
who wired up those telepaths and put them in the   
deep freeze. The doc did everything he could to   
try to bring them out but there was no way around   
the Shadow tech. Those teeps were as good as dead   
when we found 'em."  
  
"They were used as weapons – cannon fodder.   
That's all we've ever been to you, isn't it?"  
  
"What? Now that's not fair. And what's with this   
'we' business? Or are you back in the Corps?"  
  
"Oh, excuse me! 'We' can be Sheridan's people,   
but 'we' can't be telepaths? Sorry, I forgot!   
We're only supposed to remember we're telepaths   
when it's useful to you!"  
  
"Yeah, well I thought 'we' were Sheridan's   
people. I thought you were with us, part of the   
stand we took. But I guess maybe I was wrong. I   
thought I was coming here to welcome home a   
friend, but I guess maybe I was wrong about that   
too. "  
  
The kettle broke into an insistent whistle, and   
Lyta spun abruptly to silence it.  
  
"Maybe we should forget the tea. I have to get   
back to work," Allan said.  
  
On the edges of her mind, Lyta could feel a   
sadness in him, even more powerful than his   
anger. She did not turn when the door opened.  
  
"See ya, Lyta." 


	2. Hand in Glove 2/4

Hand in Glove 2/4  
-------------------------------------------------  
  
  
She brought all her attention to the kettle in   
her hand, carefully pouring the hot liquid into   
the rotund ceramic server, watching the swirl of   
bronze as the infusion developed. After a time,   
she covered the pot and, leaving it to steep,   
turned her attention to other things.  
  
Conscious again of the chill in the room, she   
adjusted the environmental controls. The tea   
would warm her, she reminded herself, but she   
sought other comforts. Dropping to her knees, she   
drew a storage box from beneath the bed and   
extracted a soft seafoam comforter. Embracing it,   
she rose and with a snap, extended it over the   
bed. As she smoothed the coverlet, she realized   
she wanted a change of clothes, maybe a shower.   
The tea would keep, but there were things in her   
suitcase she would need. With a sigh, she   
accepted that she should unpack.  
  
The parka slumped over the chair reminded her of   
her earlier intentions, and she weighed the idea   
of going out to eat. She hated to eat alone in a   
restaurant. If she looked at other dinners, they   
worried that she was scanning them; if she   
didn't, there was little to entertain herself   
with except some psychic eavesdropping. So it   
would be carry-out yet again.  
  
She left the jacket where it lay, recognizing   
that whatever chill she might feel, such heavy   
clothing was not needed for the Zocalo. She   
looked for her bag, half-hidden since she had   
pushed it out of Zack's way. As she scooped up   
the handles, two dark shadows swirled across the   
doorway and down to the floor.  
  
She recognized them, her ever-present   
companions. The packing bag in her hand sailed   
toward the bed, thumping solidly into a corner   
and tumbling to the floor. One by one, she   
retrieved the gloves, folding them carefully into   
alignment, fingering the soft leather. Her hand   
closed around the pair, twisted them into a ebony   
rope. She did not see exactly where she threw   
them, too many were the tears clouding her eyes,   
but they came to rest on the low table in front   
of the loveseat. She wiped her eyes and focused   
on her hunger.  
  
Pleasure and anger danced in her when the door   
chime sounded: pleasure at the thought that he'd   
come back to make up; anger that he thought she'd   
be that easy.  
  
"Open." It was an expletive.  
  
The shock was apparent in her face when she   
turned. How could she have not noticed, not   
sensed the difference? Instead of the black   
uniformed security officer, there stood a tired   
looking man in a brown suit.  
  
"Hi, Lyta," was all Michael Garibaldi said.  
  
She moved past her surprise and invited him in.   
He seemed tentative, uncharacteristically timid.   
The man who wisecracked when she held his life in   
her hands suddenly had nothing to say. She   
reached for the edges of his mind as she greeted   
him, then, remembering his aversion, pulled back.  
  
He mumbled a reply, and for a few minutes, they   
made small talk.  
  
"I didn't expect to see you here on Babylon 5,"   
she said at last.  
  
He tried to be casual. "Yeah, well, I'm working   
security for the Alliance, and the inauguration's   
gonna be held here, so I needed to check it out."  
  
He had made peace with Sheridan then. He had   
worked for Sheridan's forces in those last days   
on Mars, just as she had. Sheridan was not one to   
waste an opportunity or an advantage, and   
Garibaldi was too talented an intelligence agent   
for Sheridan to overlook. He'd be used, just as   
she'd been used, whether Sheridan had forgiven   
him or not.  
  
But this – working security for the Alliance, as   
he put it – this was an appointment to a position   
of trust. Sheridan wouldn't do that unless the   
two had worked things out.  
  
The gnawing in her belly interrupted the   
thought. "Michael, I was just about to get   
something to eat. "  
  
He flushed and started. "I'm sorry. I should   
have called ahead or something, instead of just   
barging in."  
  
" Could we talk over dinner?" she asked.  
  
He cringed, reluctance obvious in his face. "I   
really kind of wanted to talk to you in private."   
His back stiffened, and he inspected the coffee   
table. "I'll catch you another time." He glanced   
at her, then checked that he had a clear path to   
the door.  
  
"No, Michael, it's all right." Her jaw tightened   
on the words. "Please stay." She watched relief   
unknot his brow and body. "Would you like a cup   
of tea?"  
  
He brightened, and in the psychic ambience she   
heard a wisecrack, but he only thanked her. She   
added more water to the pot, another cup to the   
tray, and carried it to the couch. 


	3. Hand in Glove 3/4

Hand in Glove 3/4  
-------------------------------------------------  
  
  
Garibaldi folded himself down to the level of   
the loveseat and rolled onto his left hip, his   
torso angled toward her but his right foot still   
heading for the door. He brushed aside the cast-  
off gloves to make room for her to set down the   
tray, and when she had poured two cups of tea, he   
opened his hands to receive one. He let the steam   
drift up to his face, but he did not drink.  
  
"Lyta, I'm not sure I know how to start this.   
I'm embarrassed I haven't said it sooner, but I   
still don't know how to start."  
  
She could have let him off the hook and just   
scanned him, of course. Then she'd really know   
what he felt, and he wouldn't have to search for   
the words. But she didn't.  
  
"I promised myself I'd do this," he said, more   
to himself than to her. "It's hard. I wanted to   
do it back on Mars, but we had to make   
connections with the Resistance, and then there   
was the offensive itself, and…"  
  
And all those people who might hear you, she   
thought, but she said nothing.  
  
"Lyta," and he looked at her for the first time,   
"when you scanned me…" For a moment he seemed not   
to notice he hadn't finished the sentence, and   
when finally he did, it was too long gone. He   
started again.  
  
"Back there on Mars, when the Resistance had me,   
they were ready to kill me, and I couldn't blame   
them. No one believed my story – hell, I barely   
believed it. I really thought everyone and   
everything that ever mattered was lost to me. And   
there was no way I could convince them. It was   
just my word, and no one was buying my word.  
  
"But you did. You trusted me, you took a chance   
on me – one last chance – and I'm alive because   
of it, because of you. Somehow there's got to be   
a way for me to thank you."  
  
And you want me to tell you what it is , she   
thought. Chocolates, or flowers, maybe. Heavens,   
not dinner – someone might see. But she said   
nothing.  
  
"No one knows better than you do how I've always   
felt about telepaths. I feel sort of ashamed   
saying that to you, especially now. But I've got   
to be honest. I don't know if the feeling has   
really changed. I mean, I trust you, and I feel a   
sense of responsibility for all of the telepaths   
we put on those ships. But I really don't know if   
I… you know? I mean, Bester and his kind – why   
would anyone trust telepaths?"  
  
"We're not all like Bester, Michael."  
  
"I know, I know, but you know what I mean? It's   
…I guess what I mean is, it's about who you are.   
'Telepath' is just a scary word, you know?"  
  
She knew, but she said nothing.  
  
He sighed. "Not much of this is coming out   
right, is it?"  
  
For just a moment, she saw vulnerability in him,   
and it made her smile. "How is it supposed to   
come out?"  
  
He tasted his tea. "I'm supposed to find some   
elegant way to explain to you that everything I   
ever thought I knew about telepaths is all turned   
around inside my head because a lovely lady, who   
happens to be a telepath, was willing to look   
beyond all my harebrained ideas about telepaths   
and life in general, and exercise enough   
compassion to venture into the madness inside my   
skull."  
  
They both took a much-needed breath. "Of course,   
I'd need a brain transplant before I'd ever come   
up with anything elegant," he continued, and she   
giggled a bit. "It's all upside down, Lyta, and I   
don't know how to ever get it straight. On so   
many levels, I'm asking so many questions, and I   
don't have a lot of answers. How am I supposed to   
feel about telepaths when one telepath did this   
to me and another was the only person who'd   
believe me? How am I supposed to feel about   
myself when I can't ever be sure how much of what   
happened was Bester's doing and how much was me?"   
His fingers stroked the wrinkled fingers of one   
of her gloves.  
  
"Is that why you came to me, Michael? Do you   
want me to sort it out for you, to tell you   
what's real and what's manipulation?" She   
listened to see if he heard her anger. To his   
credit, he thought a long time before answering.  
  
"No," he said at last. "You've already done more   
for me than I'll ever deserve." He was quiet,   
sipping tea and struggling with the question. "I   
just had to talk to you. I…" He searched for   
words. "I couldn't just go on like what you did   
for me that day was something ordinary. That   
wasn't routine, Lyta. That wasn't line-of-duty.  
  
"I was scared, and not just of the weapons aimed   
at my head. I was scared of what I was asking you   
to do. Scared of what it would be like if you   
agreed. Scared of what would happen if you   
didn't.  
  
"And the weirdest part is that I wasn't afraid   
of dying. I didn't care if they shot me. What   
scared me was the possibility that no other human   
being would ever know what really happened."  
  
Bester knew , she thought, but she said nothing.  
  
"It's like … like if I didn't share it with   
someone I'd never be sure myself what was real."  
  
"And now?" she asked. "You and Sheridan must   
have talked about what happened."  
  
He set his empty cup down on the table. "Yeah,   
we talked." He shifted his body, setting himself   
in profile to her, and she was not sure if it was   
the body language or something more that told her   
of his discomfort. "I tried to explain." His   
hands fell open, giving an unfinished feel to his   
sentence. "And John believes he understands what   
happened, and it's behind us."  
  
She waited. When the silence became awkward, he   
dropped to his knees by the sofa and reached over   
to refill his cup. He held the pot aloft in offer   
to her. As they both concentrated on the amber   
liquid, she prompted him. "Do I sense a 'but'?"  
  
He did not return to his seat, but curled down   
onto the floor between the loveseat and the   
table. "I don't know if John really does   
understand, if anyone ever can. Except you. You   
and I. You understand it as well as I do."  
  
Which isn't all that well . But she said   
nothing.  
  
"I don't know if I can ever make anyone else   
understand. I can tell them what happened, but   
that doesn't do it." He straightened one of her   
gloves, staring at it, setting it parallel to the   
table edge. "He played with my mind, and he   
messed with my memory, so that I knew things   
weren't right – I wasn't right – but I couldn't   
understand why or what was wrong. He manipulated   
me so totally that I don't know if I'll ever be   
sure what was real and right and what was his   
mindgame." Carefully, he set the second glove   
atop its mate, matching them, point for point,   
seam for seam. "I mean, I tried to tell John I   
was sorry and I didn't know what I was   
apologizing for. I still don't know. Did I do   
those things? Or was I just Bester's pawn? Could   
I have stopped myself?"  
  
"No."  
  
His head jerked back. "You sure?" he asked.  
  
She nodded. "Oh, maybe, with some kind of   
superhuman effort you might have been able to   
fight off some of the programming, but that was   
sophisticated stuff, Michael. And he's a P12. At   
least a P12. Even another telepath couldn't have   
fought that off."  
  
She watched him swirl the contents of his cup   
round and round until the fluid threatened to   
jump free. "Michael, I know it's hard to accept   
that someone else could make you do such hateful   
things. But the fact is he has tremendous power.   
He used you, and -- bastard that he is – he   
probably took delight in picking and choosing   
what to let you remember and when to let you   
remember it."  
  
Garibaldi nodded slowly though his gaze was   
light years away. "I remember all right. I had   
little snatches of memory all along the way, you   
know? Flashes. The kind of thing you're never   
sure was real and not a dream. Just enough to   
make me wonder if…"  
  
He drank deeply of his tea, and when he returned   
the empty cup to the table, it banged down just a   
bit too loudly. She slipped down onto the floor   
beside him. "You're not crazy." She stared hard   
at him and willed him to believe it.  
  
"You take a good enough look around in there to   
be sure of that?" he asked.  
  
She straightened and studied him with every   
available sense. "Do you think I invaded your   
mind, Michael?"  
  
His eyebrows knit tightly for a moment, then   
rose in alarm. "You? No!" He shook his head. "The   
way you worried about hurting me… man, I couldn't   
believe that you'd care that much about me,   
especially then. And when you were inside my   
head, I…I don't really know how to explain it to   
you…I guess I expected a lot of pain, for one   
thing, and there wasn't. You were so gentle, so   
careful. I always imagined a scan would be like   
having your brain ripped apart, you know?"  
  
She knew, but she said nothing.  
  
He took a swallow of tea. "I could feel you in   
there," he said, watching the liquid swirl in the   
cup. "I knew where you were and what you were   
seeing, hearing. I saw it all again, too, but it   
wasn't just me remembering. It was different   
somehow."  
  
"Tell me what you remember, what it felt like?"   
she asked.  
  
An eyebrow arched quizzically. "You've been   
scanned, haven't you?"  
  
She nodded. "Lots of times. It's part of the   
training. But when telepaths scan each other,   
it's a two-way thing. Scanning a telepath feels   
different from scanning a normal -- for the   
scanner. I've always figured it must feel   
different for the person being scanned. But I've   
never heard anyone talk about it."  
  
He shifted, unfolding and refolding his legs. "I   
don't know. It was like – you know how sometimes   
you stop suddenly because you know someone is   
there or something just happened, but you can't   
say what you heard or saw?"  
  
She nodded, thinking how very like him the   
analogy was.  
  
"It was like that. All of a sudden, there'd be   
some trigger and all of my attention would go to   
some memory, and … God, how do I explain this? It   
was like seeing it twice. I was remembering it,   
feeling it, living it all over again. But at the   
same time I was watching it, from the outside,   
like watching a vid.  
  
"And it was all so fast, and out of order, even   
overlapping sometimes. I guess that's one of the   
ways I knew it was you, and not just my memories.   
I'd have thought about it in order, played it out   
the way it happened, but you didn't know what you   
were going to find, so you couldn't take it in   
order, could you?"  
  
"You never know what you'll find when you go   
inside someone's mind," she said. "Generally, you   
hit more recent memories first, and have to dig   
deeper for the older ones. But when there are   
memory issues like yours it's harder to know." 


	4. Hand in Glove 4/4

Hand in Glove 4/4  
-------------------------------------------------  
  
  
She refilled their cups, draining the last from   
the teapot. They drank in silence, and though she   
noted that the room seemed dim, it felt right.   
She made no move to change it.  
  
"What's it like for you?" He didn't look at her   
when he asked. "What's it feel like to scan   
somebody?"  
  
She used a long, slow sigh as time to find   
words. "A simple scan is nothing. It's like   
eavesdropping on the people in the next room. I   
can hear what's in someone's head. But it's   
clearer, more like it was my own thought, so I   
feel the emotion too. That's how you can tell   
when someone's lying. You feel the anxiety."  
  
"And a deep scan?"  
  
"A deep scan is more aggressive. You don't just   
listen at the door. You ransack the drawers and   
closets. You look for hiding places and what's   
inside them."  
  
"What does that feel like?"  
  
She shuddered visibly and he laid a hand gently   
on her arm. The attempt at comfort seemed feeble.  
  
"You touch a memory, you have no anticipation of   
what's coming, no time to prepare. You don't know   
what you're going to get and once you touch it,   
you've got it. You can't turn it off, -- not   
without breaking the scan -- and you can really   
hurt someone if you do that.  
  
"There's no time to memory. You have the memory   
in an instant, whether it really lasted a minute   
or a year. You can't see events unfolding and   
steel yourself for what's coming. You can't live   
with something and adjust to it. It all happens ,   
just rushes by you. No, not by you. Through you,   
over you, around you. And you feel it, the joy,   
the fear, the pain, the anger, the longing…"  
  
"What did you feel when you scanned me?" he   
whispered, unsure if he wanted to hear the   
answer.  
  
And she didn't answer, not at first, not for   
quite a long time. She stroked the leather of the   
gloves he had arranged so carefully.  
  
"You are not an easy man, Michael Garibaldi,"   
she said finally. "I've scanned a lot of people   
over the years – humans, aliens – even a Vorlon.   
Not many of those minds were as complicated as   
yours."  
  
"Yeah, well, all those years on the booze didn't   
help, I'm sure."  
  
"No, they didn't," she agreed, "but it's more   
than that. We're not supposed to look, to listen   
to anything except the subject we're scanning   
for. But there was so much – all over the place –   
about Sheridan, about Sinclair, about EarthGov,   
Edgars, the Corps, mostly about you. Are you   
always so frightened, Michael?"  
  
He nodded.  
  
"No wonder you drank."  
  
He tried to laugh, but his soul would not allow   
it.  
  
"I felt your fear, Michael. I felt the fear you   
had in that moment, of the Resistance and what   
they might do to you, of me and of the scan.  
  
"I felt your fear for the future. Could you ever   
make things right? Would you ever get the chance?   
Were you on the right road? Were you going into   
something you couldn't handle? Or were you going   
nowhere?  
  
"And then there were the old fears: of screwing   
up, of falling off the wagon."  
  
"Not pretty, is it?" he asked. For just a   
moment, he stood outside himself. "I'm sorry you   
had to see that," he offered, and his tone was   
tender.  
  
"Are you?" The question surprised her and   
stunned him, but she continued. "You said   
yourself you needed to have someone else share   
it, Michael. And when I touched your mind I felt   
your hunger to have someone really see you,   
finally understand you."  
  
He shifted position, rearranging cramped limbs   
and turning moist eyes away from her. With a   
stuttering inhalation, he lifted himself back up   
onto the loveseat.  
  
"It's where a lot of the anger comes from,   
Michael." She did not rise, nor did she look up   
at him.  
  
After a time, he spoke. "When you showed it to   
her, you were angry."  
  
She understood the reference and affirmed it.  
  
"Was that my anger or yours?" he asked.  
  
"Yes." She smiled, and carefully stood up. "I   
was feeling all your rage, Michael, and a healthy   
portion of my own. It hadn't been an easy time."   
She began to gather up the tea service. "And   
Halloran decided to push the last of my buttons."  
  
He rose and followed her to the kitchen. "Is   
there anything I can do to help?" he asked.  
  
"With Halloran? Too late now."  
  
"With anything, Lyta. I owe you. Big time."  
  
She smiled at the wall as she set the teacups in   
the sink. "Nothing right now, Michael, but who   
knows? We're all looking at a whole new future,   
aren't we?"  
  
He thanked her again as she came around the   
counter and again as they walked to the door. She   
wished him well in his new job and held out her   
hand to him. He did not clasp it, but touched her   
arm gently, and awkwardly, bent to kiss her   
cheek. They said good-bye as the door slid open,   
and she watched him walk away.  
  
In the half-light, she shivered. The door that   
had closed behind him blocked the sound of his   
footfalls on the deck plate, but she could still   
hear him. After a moment, she scooped up her cast-  
off parka and hung it in the closet. She wouldn't   
need it again. She would be staying here, on   
Babylon 5, at least for now.  
  
She lifted her duffel onto the chair, slid back   
the zipper, and drew out the soft, rumpled   
contents. She shook out each item of clothing,   
examined it, decided if it was serviceable. Some   
she tossed in the hamper; others she folded   
carefully and put away for another day. Here and   
there in the folds she found a small item, a   
little treasure tucked away, concealed for   
safety.  
  
She often did that, hid a little something in an   
unexpected place. It gave her a security, knowing   
that what was important to her was protected, and   
sometimes it made for a nice surprise. Some   
little package, tucked away until everyone had   
forgotten about it, rediscovered when you least   
expected it. She smiled in anticipation.  
  
She had examined what was in Garibaldi's mind,   
and much of it was serviceable. Edgars   
Industries' black ops, for example. She felt   
certain the corporation would want to make   
reparation for what they had done to telepaths.  
  
Some was better put away for another day.   
Garibaldi couldn't know that Bester had left   
blocks behind, of course, and while she could   
have told him – or removed them – that seemed one   
of those things that should wait.  
  
The suitcase was empty, and she stashed it on   
the closet shelf. Now, finally, she could get   
something to eat. She ordered the lights down and   
moved toward the door, taking care not to bump a   
shin on the coffee table. There on the table lay   
her gloves.  
  
She stopped and examined them as if for the   
first time. Lifting them from the table, she held   
one up and watched it sag. By themselves, they   
were pliable but ineffective. She slipped her   
hand carefully inside the leather, stretched it   
to its limits, and bent it into a fist. With the   
right hand inside, they could accomplish a great   
deal.  
  
She thought a long time about the telepaths who   
gave their lives in Sheridan's offensive. She   
knew each one by name. She wondered about their   
lives, about who they once had been. She was glad   
to hear that Mr. Garibaldi felt a responsibility   
to them, and she was certain she could find lots   
of ways for him to ease his conscience. Maybe he   
could never pay his debt to those telepaths, but   
there would be others, lots of others, their   
brothers and sisters, and they would have needs   
that a man close to the President of the   
Interstellar Alliance could help to fill. She   
knew they could work something out.  
  
She knew, but she said nothing. 


End file.
